


Muslin and Buckshot

by The_Readers_Muse



Category: Walking Dead, Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: AU, AU: No walkers/apocolapse, Adult Content, Class Differences, Class Issues, Crossover, Drabble Collection, F/M, Jane Eyre/Pride & Prejudice/Persusian au but in King's County with the Walking Dead characters, Original Character(s), Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Sexism, period drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-12 02:19:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2092053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Readers_Muse/pseuds/The_Readers_Muse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'At least the dancing hall is tolerably large', she thought, trying vainly not to sweat in her brand new, pearl-white muslin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.
> 
> Authors Note #1: An on-going series of drabbles based in a period drama-au. Think Caryl without walkers, in a 'Pride and Prejudice'/'Persuasion'/'Jane Erye' type setting in old-time Georgia. It bears mentioning that I have fiddled around with ages in this fic. For example, Carol is in her mid-twenties, Daryl is older.
> 
> Warnings: *Contains: traditional themes and attitudes, class-isms, adult language, character/canon references in dialogue, vague religious references, unmarried!maidenCarol, rich-newcomer!daryl, mild-adult content, references to Daryl's past (child abuse, neglect, physical abuse, emotional trauma.)

The heat of the room was getting to her, enough to make her wish for the cooling sweetness of lightly watered wine and the relative relief of her fan. She sighed, half in frustration and half in despair, already regretting allowing her mother to borrow it as she sat across the table, determinedly  _flick-flicking_  it back and forth in front of her flushed cheeks.

Then again, perhaps mama needed it more than she did.

It had been more than an ordeal in itself just  _arriving_. Their invitation to Lord Grimes' estate had arrived late in her mother's opinion - only two mornings before the ball and its arrival had sent the entire household into an uproar. Her and papa had been the only two sane persons to be found as Mama chased the servants about and sent her on a never-ending list of errands.

Privately, she'd been grateful, content to let her mother work herself into a lather far removed from the fallout. Pleased to have the opportunity to take the long roads, the winding trees and charming wilderness that bordered the very edges of their property. Purchasing new ribbons and red-velvet trimming that mama was intent on sewing into her hems.

She enjoyed walking. Having long come to view it as an escape from the methodic drudgery of the average day. Mama was of the opinion she was in danger of walking herself to exhaustion or the undesirable thinness that had plagued her during her younger years. But as usual, she brushed off her mother's well-meant concern, knowing well enough by now how to calm her. After all, even the reserved Doctor Greene was of the opinion that daily exercise was beneficial to one's health; and given that papa was only alive because of the Doctor's attentions, she considered all other opinions on the subject moot.

Father had coped as he always did, taking to the adjoining estate, to accompany Mr. Theodore Douglas in a shoot. He had a standing invitation at their table and often made use of it whenever mama became too overbearing. His recently widowed sister, Jacqui, was a particular friend.

 _'At least the dancing hall is tolerably large'_ , she thought, trying vainly not to sweat in her brand new, pearl-white muslin. Her mother and aunt had insisted. Money had been spent specifically for tonight's festivities. Father would not be pleased, she knew that well enough. But he'd been conveniently out of the town on business the night of the dance and neither her mother nor her elderly aunt could be persuaded on the matter.

She watched idly as a young girl, blonde and blessed with a small smattering of freckles -only this year allowed to be out in society – batted her lashes at a nervous looking Carl Grimes, clearly enticing him to request a dance. She smiled, remembering her first year out among her peers. The excitement had been almost too much to bear. This was the boy's first appearance in polite company, so perhaps they would bond through mutual uncertainty.

But it wasn't just the heat that lent to the activity on the dance floor being so sparse. Everyone was on edge, daughters dressed to the very best, in new frocks and hand-worked gowns, hoping to impress King County's newest arrival.

_Mr. Dixon._

Everywhere she turned women were tittering into their fans, eagerly discussing the latest news, fresh from pilfered societal columns of the Atlanta Gazette.

_500 pounds a year, can you imagine? New money, you know. His father and brother made a lucrative deal concerning a large amount of property in the north and then vanished entirely, leaving the youngest son, Mr. Dixon, with the entire fortune! What sport! Yet, so irregular. I've heard tell that-_

She didn't roll her eyes, but it was a near thing. They hadn't even seen him and already they were treating him like a prize to be won. Had they no shame? It was disgraceful! Even her own mother was joining in the gossip.

She stood abruptly, smoothing her gown and patting carefully at her up-swept hair. She would hear no more of that foolishness. She scanned the crowd, smiling when she found a familiar handsome face amongst the red uniforms clustered around the refreshment table.

_Perfect. She needed another occupation._

It was a few hours later, in mid-dance, whirling around in the arms of a handsome regimental, Edward Peletier, who, as of late had made his affections known, when the heavy oak door skimmed open and the room fell into a hush of whispers.

_Mr. Dixon had arrived._


	2. Chapter 2

"What say you, Caroline? Quite agreeable, don't you think?" her mother shrilled, motioning her over when she'd finally begged leave of Lieutenant Peletier's attentions. She straightened her dress, one hand sneaking up to pat her hair, still flushed from exertion and the passion of his compliments.

She'd been utterly unable to escape until she'd promised him her final dance for the evening. A languorous trickle of heat flared in her lower belly at the thought. The man was nothing if not determined, a most ardent suitor by all accounts.

She shivered, nearly overcome with the pleasure of it as she thumbed the flaring waist of her new gown, enjoying the feel of the soft muslin underneath the delicate pads of her fingers. She knew she was a sight to behold this evening, what with her auburn-red hair and natural ringlet-curls, and yet she had her sights set on a completely  _different_  shade of red this evening.

This was the third function upon which he'd danced with no one save for her. Ignoring the fawning youths that seemed to follow the Regimental Reds everywhere they went. Despite having ample opportunity, he saved his attentions for her and her alone.

The thought warmed her.

"Who?" she asked, quite distracted as a swarm of dancers took to the floor once again. She sighed, nearly done for in the heat. Her hand inched hopefully towards her abandoned fan before her mother snatched it up again,  _flick-flicking_  it briskly in clear irritation.

The reply was quick and near scathing as the woman who'd been visiting with her mother, Lady Candace Jenner, was drawn away by her husband, talking animatedly about the latest scientific discovery from Robert Koch – something about the transmission of disease through that of bacteria – it'd been all over the papers before the debate between them was well and truly started.

She smiled fondly, well-used to the couple's spirit.

Lady Jenner was well known in the county for her opinions on women's education and habit of sneaking into lectures at Men's Colleges. Something her husband, a well-known chemist from Atlanta, publically and unashamedly encouraged.

"Who? Mercy, child! Why, Mr. Dixon of course!"

She chanced a look across the room, lips twitching in amusement as she caught the man in question, undoubtedly rugged and considered most handsome by some, trying and failing to fade into the far corner of the hall.

"He is scowling at the room as if he wishes all here ill harm, mama," she replied patiently. Sipping her water delicately, with the ease of long practice as her mother spluttered.

"Yes, well, certainly for a young man - especially one so recently bereaved of his family - allowances for wealth and situation must be made…"

"He does not look very pleased to be here," she answered, taking the opportunity to examine him from a safe distance. But she only made it as far as his slicked back fringe before her memory lighted back to Lieutenant Peletier's rolling laugh.

She shook her head, finding little positive in comparison when placed next to the young Lord's fearsome expression - a strange mixture of anger, disgust and trepidation – that was currently threatening to overwhelm his craggy features.

He had the look of the man that smiled rarely - selectively, whereas the Lieutenant smiled often and warmly. Edward Peletier was such a pleasant, gratuitous, affectionate man. A credit to his gender to be sure, she would be forever in her cousin's debt for introducing them.

"Come, my dear, he is finally alone," her mother urged, sitting up in her seat, wine sloshing dangerously in her glass as she tried to get a unobstructed view. "We must not allow this opportunity to go to waste!"

"All men crave the attention of young ladies," her lady mother continued, tone forceful yet sweet, the kind that broached no disobedience, hidden under honeyed words and a quick tongue.

"-to have selection is only to his benefit. But it will not be to your own, my dear, if you continue to ignore his presence so entirely."

"I have promised Lieutenant Peletier my last dance, mama."

"Yes, and what of the others?" her mother urged, expression slitting, just like it had a week past when she'd stumbled on a brilliant floral pattern in the catalogs, trying to determine if it could be bought locally or had to be sent out of state in the tri-yearly older.

She didn't respond, knowing well enough that her mother wasn't going to let the matter rest. Instead, she allowed her gaze to wander. Noticing off-handedly that the Harrison girls, Amy and Andrea, had removed themselves from the dance floor, their heads bowed in close discussion, serenely ignoring the efforts of Captain Walsh to tempt them back for another set.

"Heavens, I am parched! Bring me a drink, if you please? And feel free to be indulgent with your time away, my child. The activity would do you good."

She sighed, toes pinching in her new shoes as she got to her feet. She held back a grimace as the brocaded leather caught on irritated skin. She'd have blisters come morning, to be sure.

By the time she'd straightened, collecting her glass and readying herself for a possible confrontation, her mask of polite, inquisitive civility was back – flawless and beyond reproach – as she spared her mother a nod and made her way towards the center table and the mysterious, ill-tempered stranger sulking behind it.

At this point she could use a little refreshment herself.


	3. Chapter 3

She swept through the whirling crowds with the ease of long practice, letting none of her frustration show as she nodded politely to those who hailed her.  _She would retrieve mama's drink and be done with this farce!_ She was in too good a mood to be affected by her mother's needling. Not tonight. Not when she had something to look forward to.

Only, it seemed as though the fates were not with her, because it appeared Mr. Dixon was of like mind, draining his cup and arriving at the table a mere moment before her.

She blinked, momentarily overwhelmed by broad shoulders and a stiffly held countenance. She inhaled without thought, breathing in the baser scents of shoe-polish and bridle grease. There was no hint of cologne or perfume on his person. Nothing to soften the natural musk that men seemed to carry about them at all times, masculine and sharp.

Her eyes rolled skyward, sending out a silent plea for mercy as the man's rolling, southern brogue thinned out the air.  _Splendid._ Now she would actually have to speak with him. Mama would never give her a moment's peace if she did not at least try.

She paused, stewing silently behind him as he accepted a snifter of fine, Georgian brandy from the woman behind the table, some waspish societal flower deeply entrenched in raising funds for the local parish. In fact, before the man could so much as finish his order, she was already prattling on about the disrepair of the church organ. A dainty, white- gloved hand fluttering at her breast in a way she imagined the woman thought winsome – rather than attention seeking and overdramatic.

And once again their thoughts were well matched, because it seemed as though the coins he passed her were more to stop her chatter than having any true interest in the deplorable state of the church organ. She watched his head jerk, making a rough gesture with his fingers, indicating for the woman to refill his glass while she was at it.

A curl of haughtiness seeped through the mask. Her fingers tightened around the stem of her cup, uncertain of where the emotions were coming from as the muscles of his shoulders tensed and released.  _Apparently mere words were beneath him. How civilized._

She was still working out what to say when he turned unexpectedly, broad chest skimming neatly across her breast before his eyes widened and he jerked himself away.

She blinked, cheeks heating, suddenly realizing that they were face to face –  _unmoving_ – so shocked by the presence of the other that words failed them both. And for a moment, a daft, completely impossible smattering of beats, she swore she stopped breathing.

The moment effectively broke when he scowled.

She frowned, the expression making it all the way to her face before she could stop it.

_A scowl? Really?_

_It was him that'd nearly accosted her, after all!_

"My apologies, sir," she offered, clutching the stem of her glass like it was only thing keeping her feet rooted to the floor. "I did not expect you to turn in such a fashion."

His nostrils flared, the whites of his eyes slightly blood shot. His gaze pierced through her like he could see all the way down to the heart of her, to where the crushed red of her blood gave way to the ivory sheen of bone. He looked at her like he'd expected to find her wanting but had somehow fumbled in the follow through.

She'd startled him, she realised.

"There is no need," he rasped, dismissive and grating as he took a careful step back, putting distance between them in a way that only piqued her curiosity. Finding herself in the odd situation of having to make a concerted effort not to match him as he retreated another careful step away from her.

His reaction to her presence was queer, powerful and irregular.

It made her feel powerful.  _Guilty._

And like her body and brain had banded together to lead her ill, she found herself automatically wanting to soothe him, like she'd done with her maid's twins any number of times in their infancy. It was a compulsion she was ill pre-pared to combat and thus-

She took a step forward without thinking.

"Are you quite well, Mr. Dixon?"

He tensed, almost as if, impossible as it seemed, he half expected her to pull back and strike him.

Her eyes narrowed, displeased with the implication. Her cheeks heated of their own accord, putting her body at odds with her thoughts as she danced between an odd sort of attraction and disinterest. Still, she was conscious of where they were. All too aware that half the ballroom was working its way through various stages of gossip-ridden rapture. Watching the proceedings with unabashed interest and unmistakable glee as the gentleman shifted.

This would be all over town by nightfall. The vivacious and demure Miss. Mason unsettling one great, Mr. Dixon, prize of the town. Darling to none, yet blessed with fortune. She could imagine the fallout even now, the judgements, the whispering. They'd wonder what she said, what she did to fail so miserably in her conversations, what lines she must have crossed to be levered with his censure.

The hearsay would be practically unbearable.

Her eyes found his. The contact was unwilling and grudging on both their parts as the opening strains of a particularly jaunty Scotch Reel started up in the background. And like the answer to an unasked question, a muscle twitched in his jaw.

' _If he held himself any straighter he was liable to strain something,'_  she mused, entertaining herself with the thought as the barest hint of a summer-curl lurked unobtrusively at his nape.

She opened her mouth to say something; perhaps to comment on the heat of the room or the expectant hush that still permeated the air around them before-

"You'll excuse me," he stated, bland and hurried as he turned on his heel and stalked away, people parting for him like the Red Sea as he tried to reinvent his solitude.

_Well, that certainly settled that._

She sighed, long suffering and decidedly self-indulgent as she set down her glass and allowed the woman to ladle her a generous serving of peach and bourbon, decidedly pleased with her rather spectacular failure.

The corners of her eyes crinkled in misplaced mirth, able to tell the exact moment when her mother's unaccustomed silence spluttered and died amidst the rouge of her lips. Indignation was quick to rise.

She tempered down a smile, figuring everything had worked out for the best as his retreating back vanished through the heavy, French Oak doors and deep into the private reaches of the Grimes' estate.  _A strategic retreat._

Clearly she would have better luck trying to romance stone.


	4. Chapter 4

Her mother was remarkably subdued all through the following morning. Refusing to get out of bed until nearly half-past ten and even then, only when she was reminded of her closest friend's promise to visit – no later than a quarter past one – that very afternoon.

She regretted her attempts at pacification not an hour after Mrs. Rosemary McLeod had taken her leave. Sweeping out of the house in a whirl of chaste kisses and titters she could hear from clear across the manor. The maid had barely enough time to clear the plates from lunch before she was summoned.

"Perhaps he is not in want of a wife," she offered, sometime later, chasing the crumbs of her cake back and forth across her plate, only half listening as her mother graced the room by taking a breath between anecdotes.

"Nonsense!" her mother declared, tea cup quivering on its saucer with clear indignance. "Honestly Caroline, the things that come to your head!"

She kept her smile tight – stretched across her lips and mostly hidden by her cup as she took a measured sip. She ignored the slight creak of the door as someone leaned on the hinges, all too aware that no less than three servants were lingering in the hall. Proof enough that there were likely more than a few private wagers resting on the outcome of the conversation.

Mama however, remained happily oblivious.

"Besides, if rumors are to be believed, he neither spoke nor danced with anyone the entire evening and save for Lord and Lady Grimes' company. In fact, your interlude with him by the serving tables was the only one of note the entire evening. Surely that tells you something, my dear!"

"That he likely detests me quite strongly," she replied serenely, having little opinion on the matter either way as she recalled the strong arms and charming smile of Lieutenant Peletier.

She was sure he'd sensed her need because only moments after Mr. Dixon's dramatics, her officer in red had been a firm, welcome presence at her side. Save for a quick turn with Captain Shane Walsh, childhood friend of Lord Grimes and freshly returned from a campaign in the western states, Lieutenant Peletier had insisted on monopolizing her for the rest of the evening. Ever ready with some humorous story or interesting tid-bit of information picked up on his travels. He'd been a delightful distraction, as always. She'd grown very fond of not only him, but their time together.

"Insolent child!" her mama shrieked, smacking her with her fork with remarkably little heat despite her baiting. Nearly unsettling her plate as the curve of her spine arced like an offended cat.

"You made an impression, my dear! That's the point."

"He left the party for three hours because I  _spoke_  to him, mama," she reminded, amused now as her mother waved her off and another whinge from the door hinges echoed out into the hush. "It took all of Lord and Lady Grimes persuasion to entice him back before the final dance."

"You unsettled him, my dear, of that there is little doubt. Not all men are as confident and polished in their dealings with our sex as your young officer - nor as forward. I declare that Mr. Dixon had best get his affairs in order lest your regimental beat him to the table," her mother proclaimed, making her blush horribly as the thought of Edward making her an offer took root inside her.

_What she wouldn't give for such an outcome!_

She felt she could be quite content becoming Mrs. Peletier.

_Quite content indeed._

It took a few moments for the rest of her mother's words to sink in. But before she could regain enough of herself to respond, there was a hesitant knock – three feather light taps –  _likely_   _Heather_  – before the girl herself inched her way through the gap in the door.

"Sorry to interrupt, ma'am, but a letter just came from Lady Grimes. It's addressed to Miss Caroline. I would have left it on the front table like always, but there is a servant waiting by the door for a reply."

It took ten minutes for her mother to stop gloating long enough to demand that she read it aloud. And another twenty as she raced around, unearthing the good stationary and her father's fountain pen before she could muddle through a reply.

_An invitation to tea with Lady Grimes?_

_Good lord._


	5. Chapter 5

She told herself she was being silly as she fussed with her hair, surreptitious and nervy for the fifth time since the carriage had passed through the wrought-iron gates of the Grimes' estate.

 _It's just tea._  She told herself crossly.

But in all honesty, that only made matters worse.  _Just tea with Lady Grimes?_ It was unheard of. They didn't interact save for the social occasions where it was expected of them. She liked the woman, her and her husband had proven to be especially courteous and kind hearted. The woman had made a point to invite her, if not through a secondary party, to any number of functions since she'd come of age. And despite them having little in common and the divide of status between them, she often spared a moment to speak with her and her mother as often as propriety would allow.

_But this? This she did not expect._

Even her mother had been taken off guard, looking positively thunderstruck as she watched the servant ride off, her hasty response carefully sealed away in a black velvet bag. But like the calm before the storm, her mother's shocked silence hadn't been meant to last. As, before she could so much as re-stopper the inkwell, her mother was clapping for the servants. Bidding Heather and Milly to upend her wardrobe and iron her best ribbons. Determined she would look her best come luncheon next morning.

And she did, after a fashion.

It was only her pale and slightly unhinged expression that ruined the façade.

Her mother had been naturally intolerable in the hours leading up to it, fussing with the demure coil of her hair – pinned up, loose and flowing – completely ignoring her muted protestations as the hours passed and she finally succumbed to a mild case of nerves. Her father found her wandering the halls, barefoot and manic, muttering about starched muslin and ill-mannered menfolk who had no concept of personal space or common civility.

He'd ushered her into his study without ceremony, coddling her in a manner she hadn't experienced since she'd been small, gently reminding her that she could always decline the Lady's invitation. Speaking over her spluttering to press her with a glass of mulled wine, complimenting the color of her stunning, pale red dress and white ribbons as the sound of Old John readying the carriage filtered through the open window.

He refused to relent until she'd drained the glass. Pouring her another to nurse slowly beside the fire as he closed the door to his study, a silent command for quiet that even her mother was not permitted to broach. He collected the book he'd been reading and settled into the chair opposite her.

"There now, my dear. Relax. You are looking better already."

She nodded, mortified, sipping at her wine dutifully. Realizing in rather short order that being shut away, safe from her mother's meddling and hysterics, made her aware of how much she'd missed the sanctity of her own thoughts.

And while she didn't think it was possible, in the quiet of his inner sanctum, her affection for her father increased ten-fold.

* * *

Lady Grimes was both everything she'd feared and hoped for all wrapped together into one exceedingly beautiful, gracious package. The lack of airs was made clear when, instead of having a servant bring her to her personal parlor, the woman met her in the entryway – a grand and exceedingly opulent place with marble pillars and a high, white-washed ceiling.

But perhaps what put her the most at ease, was the woman's off-hand comment as they made their way through the house, stopping to admire the occasional painting or sculpture. That Lord Grimes and Mr. Dixon had gone for a shoot and were not expected until late that evening.

Indeed, in short order she forgot her nervousness and allowed herself to be charmed by the woman's good company. Spending the majority of the afternoon nibbling on sweet cakes and sipping chilled tea, talking about everything and nothing in particular as the hours passed and her insecurities banked down to a quiet roar.

It was only when Lady Grimes rang for the servants to take away their plates that she leaned forward and gently grasped her hand. "I confess that I owe you an apology my dear. Perhaps a whole host of apologies," the woman began, shifting delicately in her chair before speaking again.

"I suppose I should start first by assuring you that I have longed for your friendship, but unwisely let society dictate whom I spend my time with and when. And I want you to know that it is something, regardless of the outcome of our conversation, I wish to remedy, if you are willing."

"I believe that you and I are of like mind in many things. We are both progressive women trapped in an age that is not complimentary in terms of our dreams and desires," Lady Grimes mused, sounding more than a bit wistful as her fingers smoothed habitually at her pleated hems.

"Your mother was very kind with her offer to help me navigate society upon my marriage. I was an outsider, unused to life in the country. When Richard and I first met, I was visiting Atlanta-proper with my Aunt and Uncle, it was my first time out of state and the charms of the city fastly grew on me. I scarcely knew what to do with myself when we moved to the estate after the wedding and tour abroad," the woman continued, pausing for a moment to take a sip of tea before steeling herself to continue.

She smiled, remembering how the announcement had caused nothing short of a full out uproar amongst the town-folk. Mama especially had been in tatters, switching from being incensed that Lord Grimes' only son had ventured out of town for a wife, to being in stitches at the state of the drawing room, lest the newly minted Lady Grimes' come calling.

"That is very kind of you to say," she replied courteously, trying not to let her impatience show.  _What was the woman so concerned about? What deed was so bad that she hesitated to say it aloud? And most of all, what was the true purpose of her invitation?_

"I wish to assure you that if you are unable to forgive my rudeness, I will understand. You needn't feel obligated to stay or converse with me any further than this afternoon if that is your wish," the older woman assured, her brown hair elegant and upswept, coiffed curls escaping around her nape as she settled back against the arm-rests.

"I realize this is incredibly forward, my dear. But I truly believe, however discomforting, honesty is the best course in all things," the woman assured, seeming to flit from one thought to the next, leaving her confused and vulnerable before she delved right into the heart of the matter.

"What are your thoughts on our Mr. Dixon, Miss Caroline?"

Her cheeks colored an unhappy and rather violent shade of red as everything she'd feared seemed to crash down on her at once.  _Damn that awful, terrible, man! Could she not go anywhere without hearing his name?!_

"I hardly have any sort of acquaintance with him," she protested, trying to recover from the shock, mind racing as she weighed what she felt over what she figured the woman wanted to hear. "We barely spoke and even then, he excused himself almost immediately. I barely had time to take a measure of him, no less an opinion."

"He asked of you," Lady Grimes replied, speaking with all the temerity of a solemn faced child quietly setting a hay barn on fire.

She blinked.

"…I-  _pardon_?"

"The morning after the festivities, he inquired about you and your family over breakfast."

Her mind went blank, greying out at the edges as somewhere, perhaps in a far distant portion of her hind brain, a voice that sounded far too much like her mother's, began positively  _squealing_  in delight.

"Oh dear, I have upset you." Lady Grimes remarked, drooping like a water lily in the middle of a heat wave – slight and quiet. And despite the deafening thrum of her heart pounding in her ears, she could tell that the upset expression was genuine.

"I-I admit to being quite shocked. I-I simply don't know what to say, Lady Grimes," she managed, swallowing harshly around a sudden lump in her throat. The words themselves were a struggle to set free, as images of that night flashed through her mind like a candle guttering in the breeze.

_The pressing heat. Mr. Dixon's pointed frown. The handsome curve of Officer Peletier's smile as he offered his hand. Her mother's breathless laughter. The smooth edge of her wine glass gliding across her palm. That strange, discomforting feeling that had thrummed to life in the pit of her belly when he'd-_

"Lori," the woman corrected gently, "I believe we are past such titles by now."

Dread stole through her. If even a word of this got out she might lose the Lieutenant's affections forever. Her mother would never allow her to accept Edward's offer over the possibility of one from a far more wealthy suitor. She had to end this now, otherwise everything would be ruined. All her chances at happiness would be dashed simply because that detestable man had opened his mouth between forkfuls of poached egg and culled-lamb and given the woman just enough to lead her to the wrong conclusion.

The woman's encouraging expression elicited a weak smile. She pressed her hand to her stomach, as if by force she could somehow quell her nerves. She knew she had to approach this delicately. But despite her best intentions, something of her disbelief must have shown on her face because her companion's expression was a wash of understanding and private amusement.

"Mr. Dixon is a remarkably particular man, Miss Caroline. And you have clearly caught his interest. Forgive me again, but that is something I want to encourage. He is my husband's most trusted friend and we owe him far more than we could ever repay."

 _For better or worse,_ she mused. Hoping none of her derision showed on her face as she took a careful sip a chilled tea, savoring the sparkling fizz of soda water and fresh peaches as she tried to remember her courtesies. She enjoyed the woman's company. No matter whom her house guests, Lady Grimes had the makings of a worthwhile companion. And she had no wish to squander that.

Kindred souls were far too sparse in the Americas as it was.

She opened her mouth, poised to inquire how a man such as Mr. Dixon could have earned their unwavering loyalty. How they could be so in debt to him that they were subtly making inquiries for his happiness at the merest hint of a possible comradery in the making, when a flicker of movement from outside caught her attention.

At first they were no more than a blur on the horizon, drifting lazily in the summer heat until the horses ate up the distance and the bold lines and subtle curves that made up the male form were illuminated – striking and handsome – in the fading light.

There was a pack of hounds keeping pace at their heels; the atmosphere light and companionable as long coats billowed outwards, teasing the wind with a flighty embrace before falling back again. Their riding crops loose in hand as they raced each other across the downs.

He was smiling, she realized. His face transformed with an easy, sulking grace as he tipped back his head and closed his eyes, letting the wind have him – for the pure feral pleasure of it – before he banked right. Forcing Lord Grimes' mount to whiny and snap, floundering in the soft soil as the moment of hesitation gave Dixon the opportunity to pull ahead – waving his crop in apparent victory as Lord Grimes' laughed and gave chase.

For reasons beyond her, she fled before the woman could ask her to stay for dinner.


	6. Chapter 6

She believed it a testament to Lady Grimes' character that in the days that followed, not a word of their conversation, nor the reasons behind it, found their way back to her. By the fourth day even her mother had stopped fishing for details, huffing off into self-made seclusion when she refused to tell her anything more than the color of the drapes in the sitting room and the fine character of everyone she met there.

The only thing she did hear of it was merely the skeleton of the affair. That one Miss Mason had been invited by Lady Grimes for afternoon tea and left before the master of the house returned for super. Mr. Dixon's name was mercifully not mentioned.

She decided to take it as a sign that his momentary curiosity – if it had ever been that – had been quenched. Leaving her free to do as she pleased as memories of that night slowly faded, paling in comparison to the striking fall colors and the warmth of Lieutenant Peletier's coat catching against the soft wool of her dress as he accompanied her around town.

Indeed, she was humbled by his attentiveness. He seemed to have a knack for finding her about town. Always there with a quick word, or to compliment her bonnet or dress. His regiment was still doing maneuvers in the area and it was a running joke between them that, should he ever get his papers, she would pack herself into his canvas tent and travel with him. She colored whenever she recalled their hearty laughter, conversation edging close to indecent before she remembered herself and put some distance between them.

Still, she couldn't deny that the offer didn't have its appeals. She would see the world. Visit exotic locales. And benefit from his fine company. He was brash sort of man, well-suited to soldiering. But in her eyes he was also kind, a gentleman in practice if not breeding, and he'd shown her nothing but gracious attention and interest since the moment they'd first laid eyes on one another.

The woman inside her, the one that eventually longed for a household and children of her own, saw something even more valuable. _Potential_. He would be a good provider - a steady benevolent hand. He did not drink to excess or gamble away his salary. His name was never mentioned in casual conversation when it came to the constable's business and the general petty crimes that often occur when far too many young men find themselves with an excess of free time. And yet-

She tapped a finger against her lips, staring at her reflection with an assessing gaze.

_If he asked, would she accept him?_

_Was she sure? Was she truly ready?_

She closed her eyes, breathing in the smell of starch and heat as Heather and Milly did the washing in the courtyard below. Humming quietly as the gentle  _slosh-slosh_ of the washing board rasped through the hush – the unique sound of sodden wool, slick with soap and lye as life went on around her.

Many girls married on their first offer, choosing security and safety over that of love and genuine affection. It was common, common to hope that shared circumstances and the advancing years might turn the arrangement into something more – a love that is  _grown_ rather than nursed from infancy.

Meanwhile, she'd turned down three separate offers since her seventeenth year and hadn't regretted a single one. The first had been the hardest; she'd been young and had genuinely liked the young clergy man behind the offer. The other two were easier, too pompous and full of themselves to recognize her distain for what it was until she found herself with her father by her side, rejecting them publically when they refused to take no for an answer.

She was an enigma now, worthy of mention in casual conversation and idle gossip.

For the years had passed quickly and, for the most part, the queue of suitors along with it.

Some even pitied her.

Her hand came up, soft and slow in the mid-day heat. She chased an errant curl across her temple, facing down her expression as she forced herself to dwell on thoughts she usually kept well hidden.

She bit her lip, conflicted, before her posture subsided. Seeming to sink in on herself, if only a fraction, as the demon inside rattled the bars of its iron cage _. 'There was no greater test of character than facing one's own fears,'_  she reminded herself.

She felt haunted. Haunted by a clock she could neither see nor touch. It was something instinctive. Something that had slowly settled down into the heart of her every time she let herself think of her future. It was unescapable now – a howling, mewling, pathetic thing that dared to unearth her greatest fears for the world to see the longer she was forced to go about her daily life. To appear serene and demure when all the while, deep down, she was  _screaming._

She was a creature of indecision, and for the life of her, she could not force her spirit to heel. She  _wouldn't._ It was not in her nature to be malleable, at least not in this regard.

_Would she ever marry?_

_Could she ever marry?_

She let her fingers spread out, following the grains of the polished wood of her dressing table. Keeping herself blind as she sought out the imperfections through touch alone. There were too many to count.

_For what was love in an age such as this?_

_A mere passing of property from one set of hands to another?_

_The promise of a keeper regardless of health and happiness?_

She bowed her head, letting her hair curtain around her in loose rolling waves as she considered her predicament. She'd done this to herself, really. As her mother would be quick to point out, her particular nature was to blame.

Truth be told, marrying for love was still a remarkably novel concept. One not fully embraced by her parent's generation – or even her own for that matter. And for that reason she found it hard to trust the intentions of men. For oft was that their tongues said one thing but their minds and hearts another.

Her most fervent wish was to have a man that saw her for who she was – not for what she represented. And she wanted someone who would respect that human landscape for all its beauties and failings. On this she would not budge. She'd decided long ago that even love would come second to self-respect.

_Her self-respect._

She couldn't imagine life without it. And she was determined to settle for nothing less. Appearance, bearing, social standing, occupation – she would ignore it all if only she could marry a man who believed himself to be on equal footing when in her presence.

She wanted a man who was either oblivious or uncaring of the censure of others, especially when it came to matters of the heart. She wanted a man that admired her spirit, but did not aim to tame it. Her legs stretched out in front of her, heavy stockings shifting and pulling at the straps of her underthings as she aimed her thoughts inwards.

She wanted what Doctor Jenner and his wife so clearly shared. A strong, honest, growing sort of love that had neither limit nor inhibition. She craved that vibrancy with a passion she knew would have crippled her mother with shame. Still, she could not stop herself. And part of her knew she never would.

Her life was her own to live.

Of that she was certain.

She shifted in place, well accustomed to the chair's creaks and groans. Her head cocked on its own accord.  _Equality._ It was such a deceptive, twisted word. She was sure that even she did not understand it fully. To her it was a cool rush of freedom just as much as it was a maze of entrapment. It was the grey shade to her world's stalwart attempt at black and white.

Her lids flickered, sensing a change in the light reflecting in the window pane before shuttering once more. She needed to gain mastery over herself, she had to come to some sort of decision. Should she continue accepting Lieutenant Peletier's advances? Let what existed between them run its course? Or should she pull back? Should she make herself aloof to his charms and hope that another suitor – perhaps one more open in his emotions and freer with his thoughts - might make himself known?

Her palms curled into tight fists in her lap, feeling the throbbing prick of her nails as they dug into her skin. Her lashes, still safely shut, firmed into the hollows below her eyes. For the first time in her young life, she was uncertain. She knew what she wanted, but not how to obtain it.

The Lieutenant seemed genuine, a firm candidate to match her in both heart and soul and yet – there was something, some niggling inch of doubt that refused to leave her. There was something she was missing, something invasive, cloying, something that existed just beyond her reach.

She hissed in frustration.

_Was it truly too much to ask for an honest sort of love?_

When she opened her eyes once more, nothing about her expression had changed save for the lighting from the window. More frustrated with herself than anything when she realized she was no closer to an answer.


	7. Chapter 7

" _Some women, whether before or between children, suffer from periods of melancholy and general idleness. Facing feelings of uselessness or displeasure when it comes to their daily lives. It is recommended then, to find and time daily activities in order to fill this unnatural disparity. The female mind is a delicate organism and must be treated in kind."_

She blinked, mouth opening and closing on its own accord, rendered speechless as Jacqui crisply turned the page of the book she was reading from with obvious relish.

" _Uselessness, idle hands and infirmity of the mind are, after all, breeding grounds for sin. They are places and moods where the Devil can so easily prey on human weakness,"_  Jacqui read, eyes flicking from the page to her face, then back again, the slight wiggling of a brow enticing her to join in her merriment.

" _We must always be vigilant, we must always-"_

She let the words wash over her, content to enjoy the sound of her dear friend's voice as the warmth of the sitting room – with its crackling fire and mulled wine – made mockery of the unseasonable fall chill.

It had been nearly three weeks since her invitation to dine with Lady Grimes, and nary a word of neither Mr. Dixon nor her dear Lieutenant. She'd heard from the local gossip that his regiment was hard at work, aiding a fellow county in border patrol after a string of violent thefts near the state-line. But of Mr. Dixon, she'd heard nothing. And frankly, that was the way she wished to keep it.

To say she wasn't noticeably put out that her would-be beau had left with nary a word to the contrary would be a mistruth. Just so, she was rather vexed. Having half a mind to believe all the tripe and gossip she'd heard over the years about a man's inherent inconstancy. Even one as well-mannered as her handsome regimental.

So, naturally, to soothe her wounded pride, she'd done the only acceptable thing for a lady of her stature to do. She sought out like company and set about purging herself of everything else save for the wholesome goodness of a bosom friend.

* * *

She was brought out of her thoughts as Jacqui's tone increased in false guile, clearly noticing her ailing attention. She shook herself, brocaded slippers  _hush-hushing_ across the soft carpet, forcing her mind back to the present as she willed a smile across her face.

_Enough of men and their petty tempers!_

Her smile was forced. But her friend was kind enough not to call her on it.

After all, if anyone understood the need to feel and express in their own way, it was Jacqui.

* * *

" _If you divide each day into sections and perform some useful task to timetable, the day will proceed as it should, in a timely, orderly manner. You will be dependent on your own senses and not feel the need – as the fairer sex is prone to do - to seek out flattery or false admiration in order to validate your existence on this mortal plane,"_  Jacqui recited, brows flaring high as she apparently reached a section she had not read before now.

"Ah yes, how novel," she purred, twisting an auburn curl between her fingers and slouching prettily as her friend flipped through the remaining pages despairingly. "Once again it is men feeling the need to instruct women on the proper pursuits upon which to spend their time."

"Reading correspondence, keeping our household in readiness for our husband or father," she parroted, quite done with this particular author as she listing the options off, one by one, in time with a ticking finger.

"God forbid we actually discover ways of amusing ourselves," she giggled, "to be assured of our own existence beyond the opinions of others." Shaking her head and pressing a hand to her breast, miming a mock faint. "No, I simply refuse to believe anyone could be so dense, so-so  _oblivious_  to reality."

"Perish the thought," Jacqui returned, sighing in frustration as she ran her finger down the spine. Consternation and amusement warring for place across her handsome features.

"I wonder if it has occurred to men that perhaps women would not be so prone to depressive fits if they were allowed to pursue their passions without censure? To earn a living for themselves regardless of family status and fortune? I almost wonder if those of the lower class have a better lot than us," she mused, thoughtful. Encouraging the warmth of the fire to sink deeper into her cold toes as Jacqui rang for a servant to build up the blaze.

It wasn't the first time she'd entertained such thoughts. Some would think it beneath her, but she'd often day-dreamed of casting aside her muslins and silks to embark on a life of adventure and possibility. She was well aware of the disparity, of the hardships those without wealth or connections were forced to endure, but at least they answered to no one but themselves. They were free in a way she'd never been. And envied most deeply.

"How is it that behind closed doors, a woman is expected to be a being of a thousand parts? A mother, a nurse, a politician, a family mediator, a banker, the keeper of her husband's wits, best fur-coat and fortune. But outside, society refuses to let her acquire the skills to be even one?" she posed, unable to let the subject rest as her voice echoed in the eaves.

"To be none, yet all, while men can be anything they wish in the world? Pah! It reeks of ungrateful charity if you ask me. We are well into the nineteenth century, you'd think our prospects would have improved by now!" she sulked, watching the young serving girl, likely no older than ten, creep meekly along the edge of the room, a basket of kindling looped firmly around her thin little arm.

_What was to be her future in this world?_

_What if she dreamt of more?_

_What if she had a talent for arithmetic and the sciences? Leadership?_

_Was it truly fair to teach her to mend and sew while her male peers were educated and given positions of authority and respect simply because of their sex?_

"Perhaps that's what we're doing, but going about in our own fashion. Change is a slow animal, Caroline," Jacqui counselled, smile beatific but wry as she nodded to the girl in gentle dismissal. "We are all set in our ways, even us women. Some of us have little desire to be more than we appear."

She let the silence speak for her, taking a sip of her luke-warm tea as her friend watched her fondly, well used to such topics and the heated debate that came along with it.

"Come now, let's not dwell on things we can't change before tea-time. There's a section in this horror of a book that I cannot wait to share with you."

* * *

"And that isn't even the worst of it," her friend assured, close to half an hour later, giggling openly. Making a mockery of her widow-blacks as they lit up the dreary sitting room with their laughter. It was scandalous of course, but then again, the best laughter always was.

"Did Tyreese's mother truly send you this monstrosity?" she asked, peeking out from the spaces between her fingers as she tried to imagine the scene.

"By express coach," Jacqui quipped. "I am sure she means well, but the woman is frankly intolerable. She expects me to follow every instruction to the letter," the woman confided. "She even included her own personal notations of every step of the grieving process."

"Good lord, that was utterly  _ghastly_ ," she moaned, sure she made quite the picture now as she fanned herself with the flat of her palm. Stately ignoring the way her worn, dove-grey dress was growing damp with the heat of the room.

Laughter had a way of doing that.

It warmed you from the inside out, better than any hearth.

She'd felt chilled for far too long.

It was good to be among friends again.

"Read me another one," she demanded, falling back in her chair in a shower of dramatics, enough to roust another round of giggles as Jacqui made a show of rifling through the pages. Determined to make the most of their time together as the hours grew small.


	8. Chapter 8

She wiped away a tear, trying and failing to repress the tail end of a laugh as Jacqui abandoned the dreadful book on the mantle and joined her by the fire.

"I must confess I've missed you terribly, it seems like we've spent little time together since-" she trailed off, cursing herself as the woman's happy grin faded – sobering under the weight of the grief she wore, as surely as the black silks she'd donned the day she'd received word of her husband's passing.

Her friend smiled, unsteady but warm. "You can say it," she urged. "It is a reality neither of us should hide from, Caroline. My husband is with God. For that I should be grateful."

The sheer strength and determination that emanated from the woman as she busied herself with straightening the wrinkles out of her dress was enough to cause sympathetic tears to prick in the corners of her eyes.

"My Tyreese was a good man. A  _good_ man," Jacqui remarked, pausing for a moment, as if to provide an emphasis that neither one of them truly needed. There was a frown on her friend's fine features, the expression made severe by the unforgiving coal-black of her skirts as the mourning shades whispered secrets into the silence of the room. Flirting with the shadowed corners as daylight slowly lost its hold.

"He was kind, pure and a slave to my happiness. But he did not love me and I did not love him. His heart always belonged to another," Jacqui continued, the frankness of her tone sullied, if only marginally, by the light tremor in her voice. Just enough to remind them both that his death had not left her unaffected.

"I married him knowing full well that there was a wall around his heart that was not mine to broach. Still we were content, amiable. More as friends than lovers," her friend mused, smiling weakly at her as she appeared to summon her courage and press on.

"I was lucky to have what I did of him. His intended died during the illness two winters past while he was at sea, trying to make his commission so they could marry," Jacqui explained.

"She was a lovely thing from a good family. Sweet and good-natured. By all accounts they were a perfect match. Even their families were in agreement. But Tyreese wouldn't hear of marrying her until he could provide," she remarked, her smile gaining strength as if remembering some moment long passed. Perhaps a quiet conversation between man and wife over a roaring fire – trading honesty and confidences with each other as the realities of married life inevitably took their toll.

"More than anything that is the loss I mourn. Not the loss of a husband, but the loss of a good man."

She felt near drowned in the emotional backwash, struggling to find something to say that might comfort, or at least acknowledge the plight her friend was suffering through. Only to end up in frustration as mere words seemed to fall short.

"Surely he felt som-" she began, unsure of exactly where the words might lead before Jacqui cut off, eyes warm but shining with unshed tears.

"It would be a falsehood to claim anything else, Caroline," she replied, gentle to a fault. Making her feel as though their positions were reversed and that Jacqui was the one trying to comfort her.

"He may have been mine under the eyes of God, but in matters of the heart, no," the woman continued, head tipping back against the cradle of the chair as if it were suddenly too heavy to carry. "I was merely a balm for his loneliness. And I've made my peace with that."

She chewed on the inside of her lip. Cycling through a thousand different rejoinders and abandoning them just as quickly.  _What did one even say to such a thing?_

"But enough of this dreary talk," she spoke up, clapping her hands briskly, as if the enthusiasm behind the action could somehow lighten the mood of the room.

"I want to hear of you, my dear," Jacqui urged, sitting up straighter in her chair, tone abuzz with honest curiosity. Certainly understandable after nearly five months of social seclusion. "Tell me everything."

She heaved a sigh, aggrieved again but this time for a completely different reason.

After all, perhaps  _that_ was the real root of the problem.

That so much had happened, and yet, so little could be termed progress.

* * *

As her father would say, if her life was a racing track, the dog she'd bet her last dollar on had refused to leave the kennels.

* * *

If she hadn't been so wrapped up in her own thoughts as she left later than evening - begging off her friend's offer of a carriage in favor of giving herself time to dwell on the divine joke that was played on them all in the end - she might have noticed that the object of at least  _one_  of her ire's was watching her through the wooded-green. Sulking in the early evening shadows as she tied her bonnet tighter around her chin and set out along the pale spit of bank that marked the end of the Douglas estate and beginning of her father's.

Indeed, if she'd turned around at that very moment she might have even caught a glimpse of long, crooked fingers combing – slow and thoughtful – through his charger's mane. Bare knuckled and proud in a way that would have caused quite the stir in society if anyone had dared to come close enough to see. Making a soothing sound low in his throat as the animal, black as pitch and whickering softly, flinched at the snap of a twig as she made her way carefully through the trees. Her cream-colored gloves standing out stark and wholesome in the moonrise as they firmed around the bark with an intimacy he immediately recognized –  _respected_.

It wasn't until the forest had returned to normal and the girl's footsteps could no longer be heard, that he clicked his tongue and dug his heels into his horse's sides, melting back into the green with an ease that made even the landscape question if he'd even been there at all.

But if the trees could talk, they might have whispered about the way he'd hesitated, if only for a moment, looking back in the direction she'd disappeared with hedging uncertainty. Allowing himself to wonder, in a fit of uncharacteristic self-indulgence, what it would be like to take her delicate, tapering little hand in his and see her home.


End file.
